


Overture

by Builder



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Avocados at Law, Gen, Helpful Foggy Nelson, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Hurt/Comfort, Matt Murdock & Foggy Nelson Friendship, Panic Attacks, Sensory Overload, Sickfic, the things you witness at starbucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 09:05:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15793377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: “Hey, if stopping for coffee is too much, you definitely need a sick day.”





	Overture

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @builder051
> 
> For JayJay, but since there are like 50 users with that name and you commented as a guest, I can't actually gift it to you.

The way the rain starts is positively comical.  Thunder rumbles in the distance, and within seconds, droplets begin to hammer down on the pavement. 

 

“Shit,” Foggy mutters under his breath.  He’s wearing his good shoes, the stiff ones that creak when he walks. They’re good for the courtroom.  Not so much for a thunderstorm. 

 

“Come’ere.”  Foggy grabs Matt’s sleeve and pulls him toward a doorway.  The scent of coffee grounds is almost as overpowering as the sound of rain hitting the awning overhead.  “I’m not walking in this.”  Foggy’s cuff scrapes over his watchband.  “Plus, we’ve got time.”

 

Matt shrugs.  “Sure.”  He doesn’t care.  Not really.  He’s become more than a little used to running around damp from sweat and weather.  And sometimes blood, but he doesn’t let his mind go there.  Matt’s already nursing a headache.  He doesn’t need the memories of old aches and pains creeping up on him.

 

“We’ll still be on time, I swear,” Foggy prattles.  “And with this weather, we’re starting late.  That’s a fact.” 

 

“Yeah, ok,” Matt says.  But Foggy’s lying.  The sourness of stress sweat reaches Matt’s nose through his friend’s cologne.  The one he only wears when they’re going to court.  They’ll probably be lucky to make it through the front door on time. 

 

The Starbucks line is long with morning rush.  The barista on the cash register has the voice of a grandmother and the typing speed to match.  When she calls the fourth person on a row  _sweetie_ , Matt heaves a sigh.  He can practically feel the cigarette smoke coming off her too.

 

He wonders what happened in her life, how someone with gnarled arthritic fingers and no familiarity with a keyboard fell into a career behind a counter.  She probably wants to stay busy and supplement her social security.  That would be the simplest explanation.  Not everybody has a past full of formative moments of chance. 

 

But what would’ve happened if, say, this barista’s husband hadn’t left her?  If she’d applied at a hotel instead of a coffee shop?  What if the weather was different that day? 

 

If New York had  woken up to rain on a random morning 15-odd years ago, would she still be working at Starbucks?  Would a truck of toxic chemicals still have gone skidding across four lanes of traffic?

 

A shiver runs down Matt’s spine and a bitter taste blooms on the back of his tongue.

 

“You ok?”  Foggy gives Matt a light push to move him forward with the line.

 

“Yeah,” Matt says quickly.  “Just thinking.”

 

“What about?”

 

If he’d walked into a different dorm room on his first day of undergrad, would he have ever met Foggy? Would he still be having this conversation, just with someone else?  “Um.”  It’s not worth trying to lie.  “Life-altering circumstances?”

 

“Oh.”  Foggy’s caught off guard.  Matt can’t blame him.  “That’s…heavy.  For a Tuesday morning.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Don’t be.  I’m not gonna go all thought police on you.”  Foggy chuckles.

 

Matt forces a smile, but he lets it drop as soon as he hears Foggy’s wet shoes pivot on the polished concrete floor.  The squeak rings in his ears and makes his teeth hurt. 

 

He knows he needs to dial it back if he’s going to survive court.  Matt takes off his glasses.  The spots of oily perspiration under the nose pads go cold.  There’s no need for air conditioning when the outside temperature’s dipped below 60.  But maybe working with boiling liquids changes one’s perspective on ideal climate.

 

Thunder booms again, and the front door opens and shuts as more pedestrians seek shelter from the rain. Someone shakes an umbrella, and flecks of water hit the back of Matt’s hand like tiny frozen needles.  He wipes it on his jacket, but the fabric feels like sandpaper.

 

_Get it together, get it together_.  Matt’s racing thoughts barely slow, giving him a few seconds’ respite as the waves pull away from the shore, preparing to pummel him with a tsunami of unwanted sensation.

 

A plastic cup hits the counter with a sound like cracking rock, setting off an avalanche of caramel and whipped cream that burns Matt’s nose with its artificial sweetness.  It clots on his tongue, too.  He struggles to swallow. 

 

Foggy edges forward again, but Matt stays put.  He’s already too close to the absentee business-dad and surly teenage daughter who smells like cannabis under the clouds of Downy and Bath and Body Works. 

 

_But Daaaaaad, I hate Japanese food._

_Suck it up, Samantha.  You can survive miso soup for one night._

_But I hate fiiiiiish._

 

A vein throbs in Matt’s forehead.  His heartbeat picks up speed, drowning out Samantha’s whining.  There’s no fish in miso.

 

“Huh?”  Foggy swivels.  His shoes squeak.  Pain zings down Matt’s jaw, and his mouth waters sickeningly. Whatever he just said, he didn’t mean to.  He’s not exactly in the mood to start a conversation.  Matt can barely breathe as it is.

 

“Are you ok?”  Foggy claps Matt’s shoulder.  Ripples carry up his neck and rattle his brain against the inside of his skull. 

 

“Matt?”

 

The dim café lights buzz, merging with the static that’s slowly drowning him.  His face is burning.  His mind is melting.  Matt’s stomach rolls, and he swallows instinctively.

 

“Ok, buddy.”  Foggy spins him around with a hand on each of Matt’s shoulders.  “Let’s go.”

 

Matt doesn’t feel his feet moving.  He does feel the change in air pressure and the gust of cold humidity as they bust out of the Starbucks’ claustrophobic bubble.  The rain stings Matt’s face like a thousand bees, but instead of puffing up, he slowly deflates, drifting back to the ground.

 

“Alright?  Matt?” 

 

He needs to say something, to prove to Foggy that he’s in there, somewhere, under all the swirling sensations.  Matt opens his mouth, but he gags, and he tears away from Foggy to face the brick storefront and dry heave.

 

“Whoa, alright.”  Foggy pats Matt on the back with the force of a sledgehammer.  “Are you sick?  We can probably reschedule.  Maybe.  I’ll call Karen and see if she can talk to the judge…”

 

None of it makes any sense.  Matt doesn’t particularly care.  “’M fine,” he chokes, dragging his sleeve over his mouth.  “Just…getting my breath.”

 

“Listen to me, bud,” Foggy says.  “You’re not fine.”

 

“I am,” Matt insists.  “It was just…”  He shakes his head, then places his hand on the wall while he rides out the resulting vertigo.  “Too much.”

 

“Hey, if stopping for coffee is too much, you definitely need a sick day.”

 

Foggy has a point.  Matt can still smell the bile on his breath, feel the imprint of his friend’s palm on his shoulder blade.  The sharpness is fading though.  His headache dulls down to a bearable throb. 

 

“I’ll be ok, Fog.”  Matt coughs and wipes clamminess and rain water from his forehead. 

 

“You sure?”  Foggy doesn’t sound completely convinced.

 

“Yeah.  We’re gonna be late.”

 

Foggy checks his watch.  His intake of breath proves Matt’s right.  “Ok, yeah,” he concedes.  “But you need to drink some water, at least.  No passing out on me.”

 

It’s not the worst idea.  And it’ll probably prevent another hour’s worth of mother-henning.  “Ok,” Matt acquiesces.  “But…do you mind if I wait outside?”

 

“Sure, buddy,” Foggy laughs.  “Sure thing.”


End file.
